Threefold
by Dollar Short
Summary: A coda to the third season finale. Sam brings Dean back from Hell, causing Dean to lose his memory. They go their separate ways, for a while.
1. Chapter 1

**Threefold**

**S s S**

_Mr. Kripke owns all. Not mine, although this does bear some similarity to the wee coda I did last year. Oh well, if Kripke can repeat himself, so can I. I was contemplating how next season might start. It's kinda hackneyed, but it wanted out, so I obliged._

_**S s S s S**_

Sam dipped his finger into the blood pooling in the ragged indentations of his brother's ruined torso. It was still warm and deep enough to cover his finger almost up to his first knuckle. He lifted his finger and watched the red rivulets meander across his skin. Without thinking he raised his hand, dragging the painted fingertip from the centre of his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, where it mixed with the damp trail of his tears.

A trinity complete; a final baptism. Anointed by the blood of his mother, his lover and his brother. He had been too young to understand on the first occasion, to stubborn to see the truth on the second, however the third time's always the charm. There were no reasons to ignore the obvious any more. The cooling corpse of hope lay before him.

What was it that Ava had said? Open yourself up to it and it will click into being. Sam tried to recall exactly what she had told him. On the other hand, Ruby had told him that he couldn't just flip a switch.

Demons lie.

Sam lifted his brother's hand, curling his fingers around tightly until he could feel the bones underneath the dead flesh and felt nothing. No grief, no pain, no anger. It was too late for those things, trite and meaningless emotions that wasted time and energy and made no difference to anything.

Small, bubbly Ava, with her normal life, her steadfast fiancé, who hadn't even believed in ghosts and yet had learned to summon demons with no chanting or sigils and had made them do her bidding.

How hard could it be?

As hard as you want it to be, a voice whispered in the back of his head.

Sam lifted his eyes and spared a quick glance at the empty vessel so recently occupied by Ruby and briefly by Lilith. Maybe he should have listened to Ruby, but she was gone and Sam had no use for her, she had lied and manipulated and ultimately failed him.

He had run out of time and run out of choices. He had been resurrected, dragged back from death and healed, by a crossroads demon, whom he had in turn killed. Just like old yellow eyes, trading in lives and souls with John Winchester, dead by Dean's hand.

A small circular pattern, looping in on itself. Sam could see the spiral of action and reaction spiraling away into infinity. Dean had understood and so had the Trickster, but if there was one thing in the world that Sam hated, it was being told what to do. Ironic really, that there was no one left anymore. Sam could do as he damn well pleased.

He would not leave his brother in Hell and no demon or human was going to tell him otherwise. He dropped his brother's lax fingers and pushed himself to his feet. He had done nothing to protect himself from Lilith's murderous energy, no conscious effort to repel her and she had been afraid, caught off guard by his resistance.

How hard could it be?

The whisper was louder, more insistent. Sam closed his eyes and sighed, he was what he was and the potential to be anything else was dead at his feet.

Come, he thought idly. Come back now. He waited, the house was quiet and the room still, a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. Sam opened his eyes and the space around him rippled.

Under the window, pushing past the gopher dust and trickling over the sill was the twisting column of all too familiar black smoke. It spun into the room, growing in size until it hovered over the empty body of Ruby. Sam nodded and for a moment Ruby was smothered by a small cloud, a mini storm pulsating with electricity waiting to strike.

Lilith sat up, her eyes filled with rage, face twisted with hate. Sam took a hasty step back; Lilith hissed and threw herself across the floor, clawing at his legs, only to fall back with a shriek of pain.

She stayed huddled on the floor, covering her eyes, a low guttural sound emanating from her throat and vibrating through her body.

It really wasn't that hard at all. Sam rubbed at the slight ache between his eyes.

"Bring him back." Sam couldn't tell if it was the stillness of the room or the ever expanding void within him that caused the words to reverberate with the faintest of echoes.

Lilith laughed, dropping her hands from her face she rolled over, her mouth stretched, a distorted grimace of bitter amusement.

"I can't and I won't," she grinned maliciously. "A deal's a deal, boy."

Sam scratched his nose and cocked his head.

"Oh, I think you can. Here I am, back from the dead. But guess what? No trades today. Maybe I should just send you back to hell or better still, kill you." Sam had no idea if he could follow through on either threat, but he was betting that Lilith would be equally unsure.

She stared up at him, fear and uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

"And if I do. What then?"

Sam shrugged. "Who knows? We'll see." She could do it. Something in his chest shifted and for a second the heavy ache of grief pulled his breath down and then it was gone. He could save Dean and the price was and always had been irrelevant.

"Not good enough." Lilith snarled and lunged at him again, only to fall back, the body she was using convulsing and screaming.

Sam winced, screwing his eyes shut. It wasn't that hard, but it hurt. He took Ruby's knife and held it above Lilith, the tip of the blade pointing between her eyes.

"Bring him back and I'll let you go," he said softly, unable to tell or care if he was lying or not.

Lilith bared her teeth at him and turned to Dean's bloodied corpse. "The hounds made quite a mess," she smirked, "I don't know if it'll work."

Sam leant over and rested the length of the blade against her throat.

"Let me remind you, Lilith. If a common crossroads demon can glue my spine back together, I'm sure you can sew up a few scratches." He pushed on the knife a little more. "And while you're at it, I don't want him to remember. Anything of this, me, you. Wipe him clean from day one."

Lilith swallowed, throat muscles taut against the blade. She looked up at Sam and her eyes were black.

"It's done, for all the good it'll do you."

Sam straightened up, pulling the knife away, his eyes fixed on his brother.

"I don't matter anymore, at least not to him. You, on the other hand…" He left the threat hanging. "Go, take the meat suit with you and keep it. No more little girls. And don't forget your demon pals out there."

Lilith was gone.

**S s S s S s S**

Bobby paused on the doorstep, the possessed minions had disappeared, an encouraging sign, he hoped. He thought he had heard voices earlier, but now it was quiet. At least someone was alive, somewhere, although nothing about the situation was going to anybody any good. It was past midnight, had the kid made it? Bobby stomped down on the gnawing worry eating at his gut. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Always been his favorite quote. Don't go looking for trouble because its going to be knocking at the front door soon enough. He shook his head, hand on the latch. If only the Winchesters had taken that one to heart.

He found Sam in the wreck of the dining room, standing over the body of his brother. Bobby blinked at the sudden rush of tears. So no last minute reprieve. Ripped apart by hellhounds. Damn fool kid. Bobby didn't want it to hurt, after watching Dean refuse to leave Sam only a year before Bobby had promised himself, never again. Shouldn't have tempted fate old man, he thought wearily.

"Hi, Bobby. They came for him." Sam's voice was soft and steady.

"Sam, son. I'm sorry." Bobby stopped, what did you say to someone who had just seen the only person that mattered to them dragged into hell? "We'll work this out." He meant it even if he did not believe it. He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and Sam glanced back and gave him a small, genuine smile. A chill ran across Bobby's skin at the mark of dried blood smeared between Sam's eyes.

"Nothing to work out, Bobby." Sam turned, settling a hand over Bobby's. "Thanks for everything; you've done more for us than anyone." With a final squeeze he dropped his hand and knelt at his brother's side.

Bobby watched, the unpleasant sensation of foreboding unfurling within, as Sam spread his hand over Dean's bloody chest. Sam closed his eyes and nodded, still smiling.

"Sammy." The nickname fell involuntarily from Bobby's lips, the boy was lost.

"It's okay, really it is. See." Sam held out a hand, motioning Bobby to come closer. Bobby peered down at Dean, expecting to see the poor kid turned inside out, there was a lot of congealing blood, but he could see no wound or obvious injuries under the gore.

Dean's lips parted, letting out of whisper of breath.

Bobby dropped his chin to his chest. He should have known, those boys could never leave well enough alone.

"Don't you ever learn?" he looked up, Sam's eyes were too bright, too empty.

Sam raised his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding Bobby's gaze.

"I did learn Bobby, this time. I learnt that I need to let go and that's what I'm doing. You'll look after him, won't you?" Sam looked back to his brother.

"What did you do Sam? For the love of all that is holy, please tell me that you didn't make another deal?" Bobby found himself tracking the blood splatters on the floor and the walls. So much, a bright, vivid red.

"No deals, Bobby. Dean's free and clear. Me too, I guess. Not that it matters. I asked Lilith to bring him back and she did, after a little persuasion." Sam sounded resigned.

"She did what? She let her attack dogs rip him to pieces and then brought him back, just for shit and giggles. I don't think so, Sam." Bobby took a step closer.

Sam turned his head and squinting at Bobby through the hair falling over his face. His eyes were shadowed.

"She couldn't kill me, Bobby, she tried, but she couldn't. I don't know what it means and I don't care anymore. Dean's alive and he's not going to remember anything. Don't tell him about me, Mom, Dad. Nothing, you understand. Tell him whatever works, whatever keeps him away from this fucked up life."

"And you Sam, you're gonna walk anyway from this, from your brother. To what? Please Sammy." Once again the endearment slipped out, these boys, these men were as close to him as any family and Bobby could hear the desperation in his own voice. "I don't know what's in that damn fool head of yours, but there must be something else."

"No, Bobby. I've got to, maybe I'll find an answer, maybe I won't. But Dean will have a life and if I'm not around he can be happy. Please Bobby. Please do this for me, for him." Sam brushed the hair from his face, looking from Bobby to Dean and back, sucking in his top lip, a silent entreaty for Bobby's support.

Bobby nodded, perhaps it was for the best. What else could he do? He often wished he'd never met John Winchester that cloudy afternoon in Arkansas.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam's voice cracked.

Dean groaned and twitched.

"I've got to go now." Sam bent down and gently pressed his lips to Dean's forehead and whispered something, Bobby shuffled closer, but Sam's last words to his brother were inaudible. Sam stood back and let out a heavy breath before turning away from the man on the floor.

Bobby grabbed his arm, pulling him close and giving him a tight hug, feeling Sam's rigid muscles and the awkward pat the boy gave him.

"Don't lose yourself Sam. Call me."

"Sure thing, Bobby." Sam smiled and Bobby knew he was lying. Dean coughed; a wet rattle, Sam wavered for a second and then strode from the room without a backward glance.

**S s S s S s S**

Fuck. That hurt. He took a breath and almost gagged at the wave of pain that washed up from his chest, coiling around his neck and hammering at his skull. What in hell had he been doing? Binge drinking the rubbing alcohol again. He tried to swallow; his tongue was coated and bitter. He wanted to open his eyes, but they were sticky and unresponsive. He clenched his fist and attempted to raise his hand, his muscles resisted for a moment and then shaking, he managed to push his hand up to wipe his eyes. He peeled back his eyelids.

A guy with a beard and an ugly trucker's cap was crouched next to him, watching him, forehead wrinkled in apparent concern.

"Uh, hi," he offered weakly. Man, his throat hurt.

The guy, who had a kind of round face and looked like the type who didn't miss a trick, slid an arm behind him and helped him sit up.

"How do you feel, D... kid?" The guy's voice was low and gravelly.

"Like crap, a big steamin' pile of it. Although I can't remember why." He looked down at himself and instinctively recoiled at his stained and tattered clothing. "Whoa, what the hell is going on?"

"Hey, you're fine. It looks worse than it is, it's not yours. You got up close and personal with someone you shouldn't have done. That's my fault, I'm sorry." The trucker cap guy didn't sound that apologetic. He did sounded upset about something, though.

"Well, okay. I forgive you. Whoever you are." He plucked cautiously at his shredded shirt, threading his fingers through the long holes. "I don't remember any of this or you or me. What the fuck's that about." A tingle of panic had started somewhere around his knees and was rapidly making its way up his body. He struggled to stand; capable hands pulled him up, his companion patting his arms as if to reassure himself about their relative health.

"I'm Bobby, Bobby Singer and you were helping me out, as a favor and you got hit by the tail end of some bad hoodoo." The man stopped, eyes darting around the room. "It's gone now and you're okay. Yes. Okay." Singer's hands rested on his shoulders, squeezing tightly before sliding away. A spasm of pain crossed the old guy's face. He would have been politely concerned if it wasn't for the feeling he'd been punted in the head by a pro footballer.

"Must have been some mean favor there, Singer," he groaned, rubbing his aching chest. "And I might be..." he prompted, wheezily.

"You? Oh, uh," Singer paused, stroking his whiskered chin with nervous fingers. "You're Dean." Singer coughed and then suddenly reached out and caught his shoulders again, meeting his eyes with a fierce gaze. "Dean Singer, my nephew."

"Seriously?" Dean didn't know why he should be surprised. "Uncle Bobby?" As the words reached his ears they carried the weight of familiarity. He trusted the old guy.

"That's me. Look, I know you don't remember and believe me it's a long story. Let's get out of here and I'll try and jog your memory on the way home." Bobby took his arm and guided him from the house.

Outside, at the end of the path, Dean stopped and found himself scanning the street. He would know it when he saw it.

"Looking for something Dean?" Bobby asked gently.

"Did I have my own ride?" Dean had a car, he was sure of it.

"Not at the moment, you came with me. You busted yours up a few weeks back."

"Oh." Dean was disappointed. "It was nice car, right."

"Yeah," Bobby sighed, "it was a nice car, kid."


	2. Chapter 2

**Threefold **

**Chapter 2**

It had been depressingly easy to spin a reasonably convincing tale to Dean, Bobby reflected with remarkably little guilt. He watched Dean from behind the morning newspaper, as he took an occasional sip of coffee, dark and bitter. Dean looked good, healthy and happy, his face tanned from afternoons spent rooting around the junk yard, helping Bobby collect and catalogue salvagable spare parts.

It was three months and few days since Bobby had shown Dean up to the second floor bedroom and told him to clean up and get some sleep. Bobby had spent a sleepless morning fretting over loose ends, bank accounts and fake ID's but the transition from Winchester to Singer had been smooth and apparently seamless. Dean had accepted Bobby's tale and got on with life. Bobby's most pressing concern was that he enjoyed the kid's company and had even been prompted to clean up the place a little, slapping a coat or two of fresh paint here and there. Dean was surprisingly efficient with a paint brush. Who knew? And if every night as the sun sank behind the overgrown fence and disappeared amid the scattered carcasses of rust and metal, Bobby's thoughts always turned to a troubled young man who had pleaded for his help and complicity he certainly didn't mention it to Dean.

**S s S s S**

Bobby pushed open the door to the spare bedroom and ushered Dean inside. The early light of dawn filtered through the partially drawn drapes half illuminating the room with a hard silver hue. It made Bobby momentarily uncomfortable and he quickly flipped the light switch.

"Bathroom's on the left, clean up and get some sleep. You never know, it might all come back to you after a hot shower and some shut-eye." Bobby shoved Dean toward the dresser under the window. "There's a few of your things in there. You left 'em, when you were here a couple of months ago." Bobby didn't have to lie about that. Dean nodded, shimmied his shoulders, letting his stained jacket fall to the floor.

"I'm a regular visitor?" Dean was looking slowly around the room, taking in the smallest detail. Bobby saw no sign of recognition in his eyes.

"Most of your life. Though these days I figure you come here when you're in trouble. Not that you tell me, of course. I don't ask, seems to work." Bobby gestured at the door. "I'll just get some towels for you, when you're ready come down. I've got a bottle of single malt that needs opening; I'm thinking you could do with a drink."

Dean was still studying the room, forehead pinched in concentration. "Sounds good."

The bottle was already open and the contents sampled by the time Dean came downstairs to the kitchen, damp from the shower and wearing clean clothes. He took the proffered glass without a word and knocked it straight back, shuddering at the punch of alcohol to his stomach. Bobby refilled the glass. Dean took a sip this time.

"Is it that bad, my sordid past?" he asked pulling out a chair and collapsing into it, glass clattering at the table top. Bobby met his gaze as calmly as he could.

"Don't you want to sleep on it?

"Well, I guess you'd know better than me, but I don't think I'm the patient type. Look, Uncle Bobby," Dean swallowed, as if tasting the words on his tongue, seeking out that familiar flavor. "I don't remember squat, nothing." He slapped his thigh. "These jeans are mine, like you said. They fit perfectly, I like them, you know, but I don't remember them, you, this house or me." Dean took a gulp of whiskey and reached into his back pocket, he clunked down his glass and threw something onto the table. Two small pieces of plastic clattered lightly together.

Bobby nodded, unperturbed. Dean raised an eyebrow in his direction as he retrieved his whiskey.

Bobby grunted. "I told you, you didn't tell me how you lived your life, I didn't ask." He picked up the two driving licenses, both bearing an identical picture. "Dean Martin and James Paige. Nice." He threw them back onto the table.

Dean studied him openly, pensively drawing in his top lip with his teeth, a gesture so eerily reminiscent of his brother that Bobby had to suddenly battle the surge of grief and confusion that swelled in his chest. Dean didn't seem to notice anything amiss.

"Well?"

"Well." Bobby echoed, splashing another finger of whiskey into his own glass. "Okay"

He sighed into his drink.

"You're the only surviving son of David and Audrey Singer. My late brother and his wife. You grew up in Sioux Falls in a normal happy family. My brother," Bobby paused and took a fortifying taste, belatedly realizing his misplaced emphasis on the relationship. "Your father was a teacher and so was your mom. You'd come here every now and again, I don't think Davey really approved of this place, but you seemed to have fun. Anyway, 'bout ten – eleven years ago now. Well, your dad was a keen private pilot, pretty experienced but that doesn't always count for much, went up on an afternoon jaunt, ran into some bad weather and," Bobby glanced away "they found the plane two weeks later. You've been on your own ever since," he stopped, sending out a silent prayer that wherever he might be, David would understand. "You okay, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "No. So tell me, what did you mean by only surviving son?"

The kid didn't miss a trick, Bobby had been in two minds about including his nephew in Dean's history, but his own choice of words had betrayed him.

"You had a brother." The truth twisted about into a lie that wasn't. Bobby could only hope that he would not live to regret this. "Sean. He was in the plane. He was fourteen." He had been a bright, funny kid. Unruly blond hair and big blue eyes like his mother's, body small and wiry like his father. Bobby had mourned their passing but had already learnt that there were worse ways to end your days in this world. He had a sudden idea and without wasting time on debating its merits, he jumped up and went to retrieve a small tote he kept in the hallway cupboard.

"Here." Dean reached out and took the photograph from Bobby's hand. It showed two boys perched on the hood of an old rusted sedan. The older taller boy had short hair and looked about twelve while the other, leaning into his shoulder had a mop of wild dark hair and was younger by several years.

"Me and Sean?" Dean brushed his fingers lightly over the surface on the print, eyes fixed on the young faces before him.

"Yes." Bobby said, and perhaps he said it a little too forcefully, but he could give this to Dean, give him a little bit of Sam to hold onto, even if the kid never understood what is was he had.

"I'm sorry Dean; you've not had the easiest time of it, since then. In and out of jobs and women." Dean stared at him and smirked, Bobby felt a faint flush of embarrassment. "You know what I mean," he growled. "You showed up here a last month, said your last girlfriend had kicked you out of the house, so you slung in your job and hitched your way here. You're good, as a mechanic, that's what you do when you're not getting into trouble and sometimes you turn up and help me out. I can't complain and you seem to like it." Bobby shrugged, hell he could still spin 'em out with the best of them.

Dean shook his head, letting the photograph drop from his fingers. It landed on top of the fake licenses.

"So there goes the fantasy of fabulous wealth then, dammit." He stared bleakly at the three flimsy reminders of his life. "I've got to admit this is kind of a downer."

You don't know the half of it, Bobby thought grimly. "Go get some sleep, Dean. We can sort out the rest tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow." Dean rose from his seat and started for the stairs before swinging around and scooping up the photograph. "Good night, Bobby."

Bobby waited until he could hear the low buzz of snoring coming from the spare room, with any luck; he had enough time to get to town and back.

Things had taken a little longer than planned and by the time he staggered back into his kitchen, weighted down by groceries and fresh coffee, it was dusk. The lights were on in the living room, scratchy music from one of his many refurbished radios blared across the room. Dean stuck his head through the doorway.

"You're back then," he remarked blandly.

"Uh-huh." Bobby dumped his purchases on the table, suspicion prickling down his spine. "How's it going?"

"Nowhere." Dean moved from the doorway, in his hands piled against his chest were several books, old and worn and irreplaceable. "Interesting reading matter you keep around here. Everything you ever wanted to know about the supernatural, from amulets to zombies, but were afraid to ask. I'm assuming I knew about your little hobby?" Dean placed the stack of books next to the bagged groceries and plucked one of the coffees from its cardboard tray. "I'm assuming I knew enough to get zapped by some long legged beastie that goes bump in the night." He tapped the topmost book.

Bobby knew the book by sight, _Isaac Beaverbrook's Compendium of Ancient Spells and Curses. _Useful for turning your neighbor's milk sour and inducing sneezing fits that lasted for hours, but not so much for counteracting demon deals.

Bobby kept his face impassive and shrugged carelessly.

"You have helped me out on occasion, although you've never had much patience for, and I quote, my superstitious mumbo jumbo and cut rate ghost busting." He picked up the remaining coffee and sat down. "Dean, I don't know what to say. The other night, it was a possession, a nasty one. A vicious little demon that pulled every trick in the book, but we got it out in the end and the family will be fine. The memory wipe was meant for me, if I couldn't remember anything I couldn't do anything, you got caught in the crossfire so to speak. I don't know how to undo it, yet. Give it some time, kid. I'll ask around, some other hun.." Why the word suddenly stuck in his throat, Bobby didn't know but the thought of letting Dean privy to the world of hunters seemed wrong, he coughed. "Other ghost busters might have come across this before."

Dean nodded absently, running his fingers over the worn book covers. "Whatever."

Bobby frowned, Dean was far too accepting of the whole situation. Was it part of Sam's deal with Lilith, not only stealing Dean's memories but removing Dean's drive and curiosity, undermining any effort to seek out his past?

Dean pulled the books under his arm. "I'll put them back," he looked back over his shoulder and headed for the stairs, not the living room, "after I've read them all." He gave Bobby a wicked grin and raised his coffee cup in salute.

Bobby allowed himself a small smile. Dean Singer would be okay.

**S s S s S**

Sam sat on the back pew of the small church. _Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception_ stood in the shade of two large and rundown apartment blocks in the less fashionable part of town. The cool interior providing a respite from the dry relentless heat. He would come in every afternoon if he wasn't on the road and just sit, he'd given up on prayer months ago, no one was listening, he was sure of that, sometimes though, he'd light a candle, an act of remembrance for those he had lost and he sit up front and watch the flickering flame until the wax, like his life, had melted away. It was, for the most part, an emotionless exercise, Sam didn't have the energy to expend on feelings anymore but sitting in the quiet of the old church had become a habit and in the deep recesses of what was left of his soul it gave him comfort.

Today he sat hunched over, cradling his bruised and cracked ribs, the result of being thrown down the stairs of an abandoned house by a particularly fractious and very restless spirit. He hadn't been paying attention, thinking the job too easy and too routine, he gotten a little sloppy of late and the cuts and scrapes all over his body were a stinging reminder.

A door creaked open just to the right of the altar and Father Joseph came in to prepare for the early evening mass, it was only twice a week and Sam liked to sit and watch the old man putter about the church.

"Samuel." The old priest inclined his head in Sam's direction.

"Father," Sam rasped. He hadn't spoken to anyone for about three days.

"How goes the fight, my child." Father Joseph peered over the top of his glasses, an offhand if genuine enquiry.

Sam was silent. He had told the priest his name and nothing more, whatever Father Joseph thought of Sam's presence in his church week in week out he never said, he was, as ever, courteous and patient and if Sam had cared enough he probably would have admitted to liking the old guy.

"It never stops." The words fell from his lips, low and sharp, welling up unbidden.

Father Joseph looked mildly surprised and walking up the aisle came to stand at the end of the pew.

"Have you considered, young man that it is a fight that you do not need to take up?"

Sam stared straight ahead, a large ornate crucifix hung above the altar, Spanish in style; it was made of ebony, trimmed with gold and bearing a brutally realistic figure suspended against the cool cream wall of the church.

"Isn't it our duty, Father, to take up our burdens and suffer for our sins?" Sam stiffened slightly as Father Joseph took a seat next to him, the priest let out a quiet sigh.

"There are some who will tell you that and while it is important to realize our responsibilities, if we surrender ourselves to the Lord, he will lift our sorrows. There is peace in his care and forgiveness."

"I have surrendered, Father, to my true self and there will be no mercy in heaven or hell for me." Sam's gaze lingered on the contorted agony presented on the cross.

"There is nothing that the Lord will not forgive, Samuel. Nothing that can't be undone if you truly repent."

"I can repent all I want, but nothing's going to change who I am or what I am." Sam knew no other truth.

"And what do you think you are?" Father Joseph asked with gentle curiosity. Sam dropped his head and clasped his hands together in his lap; the old man probably thought he was just a lonely drop out, an addict wasting his life on chemical highs and petty theft. He turned to Father Joseph, but the words he had chosen were not the ones that came tumbling from his lips in a rushed freefall of anger and desperation.

"I'm someone who can't be saved, I'm someone who can take hell and twist it around their little finger and even the devil herself can't stop me, and the more I do it, the easier it gets and the more I like it." Sam reached out a shaking hand, long fingers clamping down around the priest's bony wrist, his voice deepening in its intensity. "I want it to stop but there's no one left anymore who can do that."

Father Joseph paled, blinking rapidly for a few seconds in well contained surprise. He brought his free hand to rest over Sam's, still clenched around his arm. The priests hand was warm and the heat radiated across his flesh, it was the first human touch Sam had experienced in months. The light touch made his chest ache and filled him with an unbearable longing for the one person he had sworn to himself to never see again. He jerked his hand away, he felt exposed, coming to the church had been a mistake.

Father Joseph's eyes never left him. "Whatever you think you are Sam, you are still human, still a child of the Divine. You are what you are seeking. Have faith in your path, it's the only way."

Sam managed a small twisted smile. "You honestly believe that, that there's salvation within everyone, regardless of the evil they do."

"I have to." Father Joseph replied, his tone flat, and Sam could smell the fear hiding behind the black robes, contaminating the faith proclaimed by the rosary at his waist.

"That doesn't make you right, Father. It just makes you a responsible employee." Sam stood abruptly, feeling jittery, his hands fluttering restlessly in agitation. "I have to go." He shuffled along, knees bumping against the wooden bench, exiting at the opposite end to Father Joseph, who watched him silently as he left.

Outside the bright afternoon sunshine dazzled his tired eyes, keeping his eyes down he headed across the street to an ugly and dirty apartment building.

A small one room and bathroom, his chosen accommodation of three months, it was cheap, anonymous and nobody cared who he was or what he did, the rent paid in advance. It was somewhere to sleep, it was not a home. The Impala was parked in a spot a few yards from his front door.

There was no air conditioning in the small room, Sam flicked a switch and a dusty ceiling fan wobbled dangerously to life, barely disturbing the air. Sam sank down onto the lumpy bed. The throb of his bruises making it impossible to completely relax and combined with the stifling heat the room felt airless, a vacuum, an empty space that existed separate from the rest of the world. Sam closed his eyes, it wasn't only the loneliness or the isolation, he was beginning to believe that he was gradually fading from existence, waning into a twilight world where only he and the monsters lived.

He opened his eyes and as he took in the worn fixtures of the room and his meager possessions he was filled with a treacherous impulse and before he could stop himself the thought was fully formed and reaching out.

Come. Now. There was a short burst of pain that arced behind his eyes.

And she did. Seeping under the door, Sam never bothered with wards or charms, he didn't need them, she filled the room with her dark presence before taking form and perching on the end of the bed. She was obviously irritated.

"What is it this time?" Lilith snapped, "I was in the middle of something." She flicked her long hair back from her face and pouted at Sam.

Sam put his hands behind his head and peered down his nose at her. This he could cope with, here he was in control and that power filled the void and he could forget for a while. He yawned and lifted a hand to wave in her direction.

"Just making sure you're keeping your end of the deal."

Lilith rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. I am. I'm being a good little demon." She smiled slyly at him. "Under the circumstances."

Sam frowned. "You know what I mean, you'd better be keeping away from him and you had better be making sure the others are too. If I hear that anyone or anything's been within a hundred miles of him, there's going to be trouble and you won't like it."

Lilith leaned forward, lying across the bed and propping her chin up on Sam's knee.

"Stop fussing, I've spread the word, hands off Dean Winchester. Now is there anything else, I'm busy."

"No. You can go."

Lilith sat up, a calculating gleam in her eyes. Sam ignored her.

"Is that really the reason you dragged me here?"

Sam closed his eyes again. "Get out".

The bed shifted again and the weight of a hand landed on his chest. His eyes flew open. Lilith's face was inches from his own.

"You're not checking up on me, you're bringing me here because you've no one else. Aw. Poor Sammy, what a lonely little boy."

Sam didn't move. "Get out," he repeated quietly, a tiny spark of something angry and hot condensing in his chest.

She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. "You only had to ask," she purred and mouthed his chest, the press of icy cold filtering through his clothes. She ran her hand down his chest and settled it firmly over his button fly, sliding her fingers between the gaps.

"It's okay," she cooed, "I know you've got a thing for cute blondes. It'll be fun, I can be anyone. Let me." She lowered her voice. "Jessica," she whispered drawing out the name, where it lingered, caught in the stale air between them.

Sam flinched at the recoil as his thin internal restraints snapped, the dark weight of anger igniting deep within him and flashing outward, breaking through his skin with a rush of static that swept across the room. Lilith was flung back from the bed and slammed into the opposite wall, feet dangling above the floor.

Sam rolled off the bed onto the floor, pulling himself to his knees, his skin felt like it was being ripped from his bones and the bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.

"My, how you've grown." Lilith pulled her head from the dent in had made in the wall. "Break this body all you want, it makes no difference to me," she sneered. "Amateur."

It boiled to the surface again, a bubble of rage and burning hatred bursting across his flesh. His adrenaline surged, the room shook and this time Lilith screamed, her eyes rolled to black, bulging in their sockets, thick black tears seeped from behind her eyelashes. She flung her head back, jaw stretched, a demon trying to escape its human cage.

"Stop." She was begging now.

Sam clutched at the tattered bedspread next to him and threw up, vomit splattering into his face. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and screwed his eyes shut; he could feel the blood trickling from his nose. Lilith screamed again and choked, the dark viscous liquid now flowing from her mouth and muffling her cries until it blocked the noise entirely. She stopped struggling, Sam rested his throbbing head against the bed dragging in a deep shuddering breath and Lilith dropped to the floor, limbs twitching. Sam crawled over to her and grabbed her face, digging his fingers in, wrenching her head toward him. Black eyes blinked out to bloodshot white and dilated pupils.

"Here endeth the lesson for today, bitch," Sam spat. He got unsteadily to his feet and staggered for the door, slamming it behind him.

**S s S s S**

It was about one in the morning when Dean got home. The light was on in the kitchen, Bobby was something of a night owl, usually pottering around until midnight, this was late for him. Dean found him sitting at the kitchen table staring resentfully at his telephone.

"Great invention, the 'phone." Dean remarked casually, opening the 'fridge and pulling out the milk, the late shift at the bar always left him with a taste for diary products.

"I don't want to tell you again, get a glass." Bobby muttered and then harrumphed at the cell phone.

Dean poured his milk. "Want some? Okay, no need to get pissy. So what's wrong?"

Bobby glared at him, Dean had seen that particular expression on at least two previous occasions in the last month or so, each time letting the matter drop, by mutual if silent agreement.

"Somebody called you with a job, yeah?" Dean finished his milk, trying to contain the fluttering excitement growing in him. Bobby was going to give in eventually, he was counting on it.

Bobby mouth straightened into a hard determined line and he crossed his arms.

Dean grinned, "Wow, must have been an interesting story. Come on, Bobby. You've haven't been busting for weeks, not since..."

"Please don't call it that," Bobby grimaced. "Yes, since your unfortunate accident I haven't taken anything up. Dean, the last job with you was a complete screw up and could've ended really badly. Maybe it's time I quit. There are others out there, faster, meaner and whole lot more invested in it than I am."

Dean made a short rude noise, poking his tongue out. "Oh yeah, I forgot, you're decrepit, time to cash in those chips and buy yourself that mobile home in Florida. For God's sake Bobby, if you meant that why do always looked so god damned pissed about turning down a chance to put down creepy old Casper. I've got eyes and a brain and although it likes to spend of lot of its time on the various attributes of girls and cars, I know its part of your life, a big part," Dean leaned forward across the table, rapping it with his knuckles. "Go on," he cajoled, "tell me about this job. We could do it. I want to."

Bobby heaved out an enormous sigh, grinding his palms into his eyes. "You're right and wrong; I promised myself that I'd keep you out of it from now on, but I need to do this one. You, however, can stay here."

"No way." Dean was startled by his own vehemence, it was more than excitement, it was a persistent and nagging need; one's whose origin was lost to him.

Bobby picked up the cell phone and shook his head in resignation. "Willa called; she's having trouble with a property she just bought."

"Aunt Willa?" Bobby nodded. "Nutty Aunt Willa, the one with the six cats, three ex-husbands and a sideline in patchouli and tarot cards? Hey, she's family. We got to help her out," Dean finished gleefully.

"Okay, but you do exactly what I say." Bobby surrendered and Dean could not contain a small fist pump of triumph.

**S s S s S**

Aunt Willa was waiting at the end of the path that led to her newly acquired renovation project. Dean slid from the driver's seat and stared at the old building. It was an old clapboard chapel surrounded by an overgrown churchyard, there were no sign of headstones or grave markers and it was hard to tell what lay beneath the tangled brush and swaying grasses. A faded sign above the chapel door read _St Hubert's_.

"Dean," Willa gave a robust cry and dragged him into a heartfelt hug, his ribs creaking in complaint. "It's been too long, sweetie. Bobby told me what happened; still you're more handsome than ever." She gave him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.

"Willa, put him down before you break him." Bobby came around the truck; Dean was released as Willa descended upon her younger brother. Dean watched with amusement as Willa soundly kissed her brother. Bobby gave her a quick squeeze and Dean heard him quietly say 'thank you.'

"So, you bought an old church. Nicely done, Willa. Have you gone completely insane, I mean over and above your usual level of lunacy? What the hell do you want it for anyway?" Bobby walked up to the gate that rested on one rusting hinge attached to the end post of a rickety and now long unpainted picket fence and peered down the path.

Willa placed her hands on her ample hips and snorted, her eyes, so much like Bobby's, crinkling up with displeasure. Her long red hair, liberally streaked with grey, was tied back in single braid and she was wearing a flowing batik print dress of muted greens and purples, Dean leaned back against the truck and grinned, family could be so entertaining.

"I'm going to turn it into an art studio and gallery. It was a very good deal."

"Oh, there's a surprise. I wonder why." Bobby kicked at the gate, which snapped off its only anchor and clattered onto the paving stones, sending a shower of dust and splinters into the air.

"Do you mind?" Willa elbowed Bobby aside and pulled the gate up, propping it against the fence. "As a matter of fact the realtor did mention that it was reported to be haunted. Nothing I thought a bit of sage and chanting wouldn't clear, unfortunately whatever it is, refuses to go. My contractor won't go near the place. That's why you're here, Robert dear. Time to bring out the big guns." Willa turned and winked at Dean.

Bobby glared at them both and jabbed a finger at his sister. "You, keep out of the way, and you," he aimed at Dean, "you do what you're told." He went to the back of the truck and began unloading his gear.

Willa smiled fondly after him. "He was just the same when he was little. Always had control issues, I think it comes from being a middle child."

Bobby marched past them, shoving a tote bag at Dean. "Let's get this over with."

**S s S s S**

Dean rounded the corner, shotgun high against his chest and let loose a wild shot, luckily his aim found the blurry figure barely visible in the shadow of the chapel wall. The flying salt cut through the apparition and it disappeared. Dean took a breath, his heart pumping wilding, adrenaline singing jubilantly through his veins, he lowered the shotgun and held out a hand.

"You okay there, Bobby?"

Bobby took his offered hand and got slowly to his feet, dusting himself off. "Yeah. Thanks, good shot kid. I think I've found it. He's getting more aggressive so I'm pretty sure we're in the right spot."

Behind Bobby, under the chapel window was a pile of old grave markers. According to Willa's realtor the bodies had been moved to a larger cemetery some years before, apart, Bobby had concluded, from one grave, hidden in the untidy jungle of the small churchyard. Using some hocus pocus from a source he refused to identify Bobby had tracked it down, digging out an old iron marker that had been missed, before being interrupted by the lost grave's inhabitant, or at least, his ghost. A former and rather curmudgeonly old soldier if the wavering image of his spirit was anything to go by, apparently somewhat upset at being left behind or as Bobby quipped, Willa's appalling taste in art.

"What now?" Dean had little success in containing his enthusiasm. Bobby gave him a funny look.

"Dig him up and salt and burn the remains. That should leave Willa free to terrorize the local art community and leave me in peace." Bobby pointed a shovel he had retrieved toward a patch of thick grass and tangled vines. "Just there. I'll take that." He relieved Dean of the gun and thrust the shovel at him. "You dig, I'll salt."

"And I'll burn?" Dean asked eagerly. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Yes."

They left the little chapel sitting peacefully in the late afternoon sun and headed for Willa's house, a neat little rancher on the other side of town.

**S s S s S**

The inside of the house was very modern, a complete contrast to Bobby's randomly eclectic style of decorating.

Willa herded Dean into the living room and was banging pots and pans about in the kitchen while interrogating Bobby. Dean sank into a well stuffed leather sofa on the end of which sat the biggest cat he had ever seen. It black and sleek, one ear ragged and torn, a scarred testament to many a back alley scuffle. It regarded him through orange slitted eyes.

"Hello kitty," Dean was always polite to strange cats.

The cat yawned showing a mouth full of long sharp teeth, it opened its eyes wider and gazed insolently at him. It pushed out its front paws, baring curved claws, six on each foot and raised its rump, stretching forward, tail high in the air before padding across the cushions and climbing into Dean's lap. It stared up at him, and sitting upright placed a paw on his chest, the tips of its claws piercing his shirt and pricking his flesh. Dean stared back and the cat gave a quiet hiss, jumped lightly from his lap and sauntered from the room.

"I see you've met Sinbad." Willa appeared at the door way. "Touch of the devil in that one. The others are around somewhere, so watch your step. Supper's ready, I hope you like lasagna."

Willa was a much better cook than her brother, and even Bobby seemed more relaxed than Dean had seen him in the last couple of months. After two helpings of homemade pasta, garlic bread and red wine Dean was feeling comfortably mellow. Willa cleared away the plates and retrieving a large dish from the stove placed it before Bobby, who stiffened in his seat.

"It's peach cobbler, Bobby. Ma's old recipe. Your favorite." Willa told him with artificial sweetness.

"I know what it is, Willa dearest, and I also know you only make it for me when you want something," Bobby eyed the dessert as if it might crawl from the dish and launch an attack.

"I've got ice cream too." Willa sat down.

"Oh God, just how bad is it?" Bobby groaned and pulled the cobbler toward him, helping himself to a generous dollop before pushing it across to Dean. Dean spooned some into his own bowl, keeping his eyes on Willa. It was another job, he just knew it. Something big.

"You're too cynical for your own good, Bobby." Willa said primly, topping up everybody's wine glass. "Do you remember Merle Baxter?"

Bobby, who had a mouth full of cobbler, shook his head.

"Oh yes you do, Dennis' cousin," Willa smiled at Dean, "Dennis, ex. number two. Well, it's her neighbor, a dear old fellow, getting on in years; he lives by himself in a small cottage on a couple acres. Merle pops by every few days, you know, checks up on him, helps with the groceries and the like, she's being doing that for a couple of years, he can't walk too far. So anyway, about two weeks ago she went by to drop off some baking she'd done and there he was, striding about the place, looking as fit as a fiddle, of course she was amazed. But..." Willa paused looking between the two men; Bobby was staring at her, the blood draining from his face. Dean's pulse quickened. "But when she went up to him, she said it was like he was someone else, he said awful things to her, personal things, wicked things. Merle may be a God fearing woman but she knows that there are things out there. She called me. Bobby, please."

Bobby was out of his chair, back to them, Dean could see the fine tremors running across his shoulders. "I thought I made it clear, Willa, I don't do that anymore."

Dean was surprised, Bobby was angry. Willa was starting to look a little less confident and a lot more worried.

"You did, and I wouldn't have asked if it hadn't been a call from a friend, a good friend. Merle's helped me out, more than once. I understand if you can't do it, perhaps you could contact someone who can help."

"Bobby," Dean started and then flinched as Bobby swung around, and thumped his fist on the table.

"Don't even go there Dean. It's not going to happen, get it?"

Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, his own anger slowly building. "Maybe, maybe not. In case you hadn't noticed I am an adult and frankly, I can do whatever the hell I want. I've done some reading and I think I could sort this out."

Bobby laughed bitterly, "This isn't some trip to Disneyland and a ride on the ghost train, kid. Things like this have a way of turning bad and staying that way. You're way out of your league."

"Don't fucking patronize me," Dean pushed back from the table, fists clenched, fighting the sudden and almost overwhelming need to punch someone or something.

"Boys!" Willa's voice was sharp and commanding. "That's enough from both of you. I'm sorry, this is my fault. Let's drop it. I'll deal with it."

Dean forced himself to unclench his hands, rolling his shoulders he sat back down.

Bobby seemed to deflate, slouching into his chair and burying his face in his hands. "Fuck it. This was never going to work," he mumbled. "It's okay Willa, we'll do it."

Dean grinned and lifted his wine glass. "Cheers."

**S s S s S**

_A/N: There will be more, though I don't know whether the boys dilemma will ever be resolved…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Threefold **

**Chapter 3**

The air was full of stale cigarette smoke, a thin brown film covered the windows and the table top was sticky with the residue of a thousand greasy meals. Sam noticed none of this. He did not notice the handful of weary travelers dotted around the truck stop or the fact that his coffee cup had just be refilled.

He lived in a constant state of disassociation, rarely making eye contact and only speaking when it was absolutely necessary. A big part of him knew that he was pulling away from life, the real world as witnessed by the people around him. He often felt as if he was slipping from one dimension to another; he was becoming part of their world, it had only happened a three of four times so far, but he could tell just by looking. Once he had been able to smell it. Possession. Demons hiding in plain site in the flesh of others and this time it was more than that. Driving along, going nowhere and he had felt it, he could see it in his minds eye like a noxious mist hanging over the land keeping the fresh air out and corralling the rotting presence he knew to be a demon. He had pointed the car in the direction he had sensed it and kept going, the sensation growing stronger with each passing mile.

Gas tank low, he had been forced to stop and without much thought wandered into the diner. As usual he kept his head down, and concentrated on the pinpointing exactly where his next encounter would be. It wasn't far now, the feeling was strong, a thorn in his side, not overwhelming but constant and uncomfortable.

He gulped down the rest of his coffee, threw some change on the table and left.

He found the small house three miles down the road. He parked the Impala a few hundred yards further down the road, under the cover of a small stand of trees and climbing over the property fence, approached the house from across the fields. Sam crouched, hiding in the shadows of one of the outbuildings, something had changed. He sniffed the air. It was still there, its energy somehow subdued. Someone else was here, other hunters perhaps. He started to backtrack, he would wait, he wasn't going to get involved if others were there, but his feet dragged, seemingly reluctant to leave and against his better instincts he slowly and cautiously found his way back to the side of the small cottage.

**S s S s S**

Dean tapped impatiently on the molded plastic of the truck door, it was on the tip of his tongue to inform Bobby that there was no need to drive like a little old lady on a grocery run. Bobby glanced sideways at him.

"Contrary to what you might be feeling Dean, I am not in a hurry to get there," Bobby remarked grouchily.

Dean stilled his fingers with a guilty start. He didn't blame Bobby, they had been on the road since early morning and Bobby's steady and consistent pace was wearing on his nerves. He had suggested that they share the driving, eager to get behind the wheel and feel some control, to respond to the growing sense of urgency that was battering at him, demanding action. He needed to be doing something, anything to distract him from the ever expanding emptiness that had suddenly started to gnaw at him.

Working with Bobby, the job and friends at the bar, while something he enjoyed, was not he was beginning to realize enough to make up for the fact he did not know who or what he was. Yes, he knew his name, where he came from, but he didn't feel it. He had been trying for the last three months to get a grasp on who Dean Singer was, some things came easily and he felt an immediate kinship; cars, girls, Bobby and yet as the weeks had passed the promise of joining Bobby on his ghost hunting jaunts was something he had found taking up more and more of his thoughts. Bobby's reluctance to involve him was a slow burning wick of irritation that had flared up brightly at Willa's house. He might have no memory of his previous life but he needed to do this.

"Sorry Bobby, I guess I'm getting a bit antsy." Dean tucked his hands under his thighs in an effort to curb his fidgeting.

"Nervous? Look Dean, we don't have to do this, probably save us a heap of trouble if we don't." Bobby said, staring straight ahead, concentrating on the empty road.

"I'm not scared, I want to do this." Dean objected loudly and then admitted, "Goddammit Bobby, I have to do this. Man, it's been driving me crazy. Maybe it's something the demon did with the memory spell." It was more than that, an indefinable compulsion that sprang from deep within and if anything that was what frightened him, not the threat of unknown supernatural entities but his own forgotten potential.

Bobby didn't say anything, hunching over the steering wheel and pressing his foot down on the gas, the truck lurched forward. Dean peered out of the side window; a blue sign on the side of the road announced their arrival in Kansas. Dean wondered if he'd ever been to the state in the past.

They found the cottage about an hour later. Bobby parked the truck along side the main gate, blocking its access from the road and the house, and reaching behind his seat pulled out a large folded cloth, running his fingers carefully over the folds and creases.

"Have you ever tried this before, I mean like this." Dean asked leaning over and lightly caressing the fine texture of the linen piled on Bobby's lap. It was cool to the touch and Dean could almost imagine that he felt the faint tingle of electricity course through his fingertips.

Bobby shook his head. "Not like this, no. Can't see any reason why it won't work, ' course depends on what we're dealing with. If it's a common garden possession we should be able to hold it in a devil's trap, even one like this. Anything else and we're out of there." Bobby eyes were hard. "No questions asked, okay. If I say it's a bust, that's it. We, you, don't need any more trouble."

Dean nodded dutifully, no point getting Bobby's hackles up, just yet. "Where did you get an altar cloth anyway?"

"Willa. She found a whole stack of bits and pieces left at the chapel. Funny that." Bobby traced a finger over the faint markings that now covered the cloth. "Do you know who St. Hubert is, Dean?"

"Dead?" Dean replied helpfully.

Bobby gave him an old-fashioned look, "Yeah, that too. He's the patron saint of hunting, if you believe in that sort of thing."

"Oh, that's nice," Dean responded carefully, wondering what that had to do with anything. "Shall we do this?"

In reply Bobby opened his door and slid from his seat, altar cloth tucked under his arm.

Dean had been secretly hoping for their tactical planning to involve an element of subterfuge and stealth and had been disappointed at Bobby's decision to take a startling direct approach to the whole concept of trapping the demon.

Bobby marched up to the cottage, climbed the three steps to the wrap-around porch and banged on the door.

"Go around back; make sure it doesn't leave by the back door. Use the holy water if you have to."

Dean raced around the side of the house, stumbling as he stopped himself quickly at the side door; he gently tried the old brass lever, the door opened. He knew he was supposed to wait, Bobby's instructions had been very specific about what he could and couldn't do, he stepped in the dim interior.

He was in the kitchen, dated appliances and garish orange wallpaper a testament to the age of its inhabitant. Off the kitchen through a small archway was the living room, a dark brown couch covered by a ratty crocheted blanket faced a small TV and a folding table leaned against the wall, it was all very ordinary and at that moment empty.

Upstairs, floor boards creaked. Someone was walking above his head; Dean crept forward, through the living room to the stairs at the back of the house. He looked up, on the landing stood an old man, his blue jeans hung off his thin bandy legs and a red checkered shirt swallowed his upper body. His white hair was slicked back and his heavily lined face showed nothing but surprise at the discovery of an intruder in his home. He looked every inch the old country boy.

"Who's there? Who is it?" It was an old reedy voice full of fear and defiance and Dean wanted to believe that they had made a mistake, that Willa's friend had it all wrong and whatever changes had overcome the old man were nothing more than the natural ravages of age corrupting the mind and memories of someone already infirm.

He wanted to believe that because it would mean the rush of cold terror that swept over him was only his over-active imagination, that the foul smell of rotting flesh and excrement that filled the room, burning his nostrils and making him gag was an illusion. For a moment his vision grayed and the walls of the cottage dissolved leaving him suspended in an enormous void filled with a sickly yellow light, his chest erupted with a blaze of pure agony. He cried out and he was back within the confines of the cottage and gazing down at him were the black eyes of the demon.

The old man grinned and skipped nimbly down a couple of steps. "Well lookee here, fancy meeting you here, Dean." Its voice was rough with human age but spoken with an unsettling force and despite Bobby's repeated and rather tedious warnings about demons and their ability to see inside people's heads Dean staggered back at the unexpected violation.

He did the most sensible thing he could think of under the circumstances, he turned and ran, through the living room, into the hallway heading for the front door, before he could reach it a firm hand shot out, dragging him sideways into a small room, not much bigger than a closet.

"Sshh. Stay put," Bobby mouthed and glanced downwards. The sigillary cloth lined the hallway floor. Dean took a shuddering breath trying desperately to dispel the weight of his fear and vision, the devil's trap was worryingly small. Bobby stepped into the hallway, Dean moved to doorway.

"Hello, hi there." Bobby called out confidently and then he was backing up slowly. Shuffling footsteps sounded along the walls and Dean pressed further into dark of the small room, pinching his nose at the noxious smell wafting through the air.

"Another one, what a busy place this is. Do I know you?" A cheerful voice asked.

"Can't say I've had the pleasure." Bobby was at the front door, hands behind his back.

"Ooh, a washed-out old hunter, just for little ol' me. You really shouldn't have." The voice came closer and then Dean heard a low angry hiss and he could see Bobby relax and bring his hands to the front, tightly grasping a small black book, he nodded in Dean's direction. Dean crept forward.

The old man stood in the middle of the altar cloth, the ghostly shimmer of the ancient marks binding him to the spot.

Dean squashed up next to Bobby, resting on hand on the door lock. Bobby flicked open his book and began to read, his pronunciation needed some work, Dean decided and then wondered how he knew that to be true. A soft noise coming from the back of the house caught his attention; neither Bobby nor the possessed pensioner seemed to hear it.

"Stupid pathetic humans, it'll take more than that to get rid of me," the demon sneered, "Don't you think we've learn to deal with your kind. Useless, weak flesh. Weak minds. Can't deal with anything, life or death, always crying for your mommy. Isn't that right, Dean?" It leered at Bobby. "Is it working yet?"

Bobby kept on the droning Latin; Dean could not see any obvious effect. The devil's trap held firm but the exorcism showed no sign of purging the demon from its frail host.

"Oh, give it up. We'll see who lasts longer, me or you." Its black eyes glinted in the streak of daylight that spilled down the passage from glass pane above the front door. "So, Dean. How are things? You can tell me. It's been a while since I was there, how is it down in …" It stopped, choking on its words, eyes bulging with shock and pain as it dropped to its knees.

"Bobby?" Dean asked uneasily, Bobby hesitated and lowered his book as a tall figure appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall.

"I'll take it from here." A young man stepped into the light and Dean blinked in surprise. He was a kid, no more than 20 or so. Long and skinny with a wild mess of dark, shoulder length hair, his skin was sallow and his eyes dark and bruised. His clothes looked like rejects from goodwill and a good meal probably wouldn't have done him any harm.

Who the hell does he think he is? Dean thought indignantly. "Hey buddy, this is our gig, so why don't you toddle along and we'll finish up, okay," he drawled, striving for cool and collected now that his earlier fear and revulsion were fading.

The kid stared at him intensely for a moment and then casually stepped over the huddled form on the floor, letting one hand trail over its bowed head. The old man and his unwanted visitor sank to the floor, moaning brokenly.

Bobby gaped and then gathering his wits about him greeted the stranger.

"Hey, Sam. I didn't realize you were still working," Bobby's voice wavered and he reached out, Sam drew back slightly and Bobby dropped his hand.

"I could say the same to you. An exorcism, Bobby?" Sam asked blandly, his face expressionless. "Who's the hired help?"

To Dean's amazement, Bobby was uncomfortable, even a tad flustered.

"My nephew. Dean Singer meet Sam Winchester." Dean's upper lip twitched and the Winchester kid ignored him. "Sam, this was just a one off, a favor for my sister."

Dean couldn't believe it; Bobby was behaving as if he owed the jerk an explanation. What an asshole, his parents had obviously neglected to teach the boy any manners.

"Now look here, Winchester," Dean began angrily.

"Get out," the boy said flatly.

"What?" Dean was incredulous, he wasn't going to be pushed around by somebody who didn't look old enough to drink or in this case feed himself.

"Get. Out." Sam repeated meeting his gaze, Dean felt a trace of fear return at the strange light that shone in the kid's eyes, the flecked green painted with madness and pain.

"It's okay Sam, we're going." Bobby quickly agreed and gestured to the body lying across the hallway. "Do you think the old guy will make it?"

"No." Sam bent down and pulled the altar cloth out from under the old man and handed it to Bobby. "Neat trick, but I don't need it. See you around, Bobby," and he turned his back on them.

Bobby tugged open the door and pushed Dean bodily onto the front porch, slamming the door behind him.

"What the fuck, Bobby. Are you just gonna let him order you around. Who the hell is that guy anyway?" Dean spluttered, overcome with a sudden fury, resisting Bobby's attempt to propel him down the front steps.

Bobby's dug his fingers into his arm and getting so close Dean could feel his breath said tightly, "He's a hunter and whatever he's doing in there I don't want to know and neither do you." Bobby's eyes, wide and pleading were only a few inches from his own. "Please Dean, trust me. Let's get out of here."

Dean relented and let Bobby herd him along the path to the gate and as they reached the truck a shrill scream echoed from the house, moments later the front door opened and Sam Winchester stood on the porch, watching as they drove away.

This time Bobby let Dean drive. Dean suspected it was to try to placate him over their interrupted exorcism; he drove with a grim determination, keeping well above the posted speed limits. Bobby said nothing.

"So how old is that kid, anyway? He looks barely out of diapers." Dean couldn't get the image of that haunted face from his mind.

There was silence and then Bobby said reluctantly, "He's in his early twenties." He offered no more information.

"And?" Dean asked impatiently. "He's a bit young for this isn't he; it doesn't look as if it's doing him any good."

Bobby sighed. "I knew his father, a hunter. It's the way the boy was raised, he doesn't know anything else."

"What's this 'hunter' crap. Ghost hunters, you mean? Sounds kind of pompous. Hun-ters." Dean drew out the word and a chill trickled down his spine. "I guess that explains the crazed Rambo look that kid had going for him." Dean slowed the truck, pausing at an empty intersection. "I mean, he must be a few cents short on the dollar, right, if he does this on his own. And what's his schtick, anyway? How did he manage to get the upper hand on that old dude or that demon, Bobby?" Dean couldn't contain his words and the anger that accompanied them, he stamped his foot on the gas pedal and the truck leapt across the crossroads.

Bobby clutched at the dashboard. "Hunting can ruin you if you let it, Dean. Sam Winchester's not the only one who's gone down that road. That's why I've always kept my distance from them. I've seen plenty of good men and women forget who they are and get caught up in the shadows. You've got a lot going for you, kid, don't fool yourself that hunting's anything other than a dirty dangerous life for people who ain't got nothing else."

Dean steered the speeding truck around a tight corner and Bobby slid across his seat as Dean glanced at him, curiously. "What is it you're so afraid of Bobby?"

"Nothing," Bobby snapped, "it's just common sense, you mess with bad things, they mess you right back. Now shut up and drive." For once Dean held his tongue, he realized this was not the time to push the issue, Bobby radiated tension and Dean could sense his fear, he would wait.

When they arrived home it was late and Bobby stomped upstairs and locked himself in the bathroom, when he emerged he grunted a taciturn 'goodnight' and told Dean that they would debrief in the morning, he slammed his bedroom door shut and left Dean standing in the empty hall, alone and increasingly frustrated. Dean went to bed.

**S s S s S**

The kid looked up at him with big round eyes and then grinned broadly reaching out a small hand, tugging at his sleeve.

"Hide and seek. Come on, Dean. You promised." The kid blinked familiar green eyes and turned and ran, ducking behind the burnt out shell of an old car and then popping up again waved through the glassless windows.

"Dean," he whined, "you've got to count to twenty."

Dean wanted to play, he longed to run after his small companion, dodge and weave through the tumble of motor cars old and new, he tried to move but his feet were glued in place. He looked up, the clear blue sky arched overhead curving into the horizon and squeezing the landscape together, the bright sun glinting off exposed metal. He felt as if he were in one of those small glass globes filled with water and tiny pieces of drifting glitter.

He was dreaming, he was sure that it was the first dream he had experienced since waking up on the floor of a stranger's house covered with blood.

"Deeean." The kid called again, further away this time. It was the boy in the photograph. It was Sean, his long-dead little brother.

"Coming, ready or not," he yelled and the air shook. The air filled with the grating sound of metal on metal and a cry echoed up through the battered cars.

"Dean, help me," Sean whimpered, somewhere out of sight.

Dean wrenched himself forward, muscles extended to their limits but even as he moved the world around him stretched further and further away. The wretched sound of sobbing bounced off the cars.

He opened his mouth to scream his brother's name, but his mouth wouldn't form the word. He tried again, this time the name erupting from his lips.

"Sammy," he choked and everything disappeared into darkness.

Dean jerked awake, stifling a cry, his heart racing in panic. He lay still for moment and then brushed his fingers across his face, rubbing at a slight irritation. His fingers met with warmth and moisture, he was crying. He sat up and flicked the light on, feeling unnerved. The dream made no sense, he decided to go downstairs to the kitchen, a drink of something would ease his troubled subconscious.

The lights were on at the bottom of the stairs and he found Bobby sitting at the kitchen table staring bleakly into middle distance. His eyes were red and swollen.

"Bobby?" Dean stood in the doorway.

Bobby turned his head, slowly letting his gaze focus on the man before him and he shook his head. Dean sat down beside him.

"It's that Winchester kid, isn't it?" Dean said quietly. The chance encounter had unsettled them both and Dean knew instinctively that the young hunter had been on Bobby's mind as much as he had been on his own.

Bobby dipped his head and whispered, "Yeah," and Dean's heart thudded painfully as he added, almost inaudibly, "I'm so sorry, Dean."


	4. Chapter 4

**Threefold**

**Chapter 4**

**S s S s S**

Sam turned his back, unable to look at his brother's unwelcoming expression any longer. The door was slammed shut behind him muffling Dean's outraged tones. He let himself sag for a moment, his muscles overcome with grief and loneliness.

What was Bobby thinking, involving Dean in an exorcism, off all things? Sam stared down at the twitching form on the floor and let his anger roll over him. Bobby had no right being here and Dean, oh God, Sam clamped down on the heartfelt stab of longing; his brother still hadn't lost that edge of arrogance. His quicksilver emotions churned together until his sorrow was snuffed out by the sudden fury that filled him. It shored up his defenses, strengthened his body and burned through his thoughts until only the desire to strike out and purge the demon from its human shell remained.

Sam kicked at the man in front of him, something snapped, brittle and old. It felt good so he did it again, harder this time.

The prone figure grunted and wheezed. Its eyes opened, they were black and dull.

"You'll kill him, not that I care, but I think you might," it spat, words disjointed and mocking.

Sam delivered another blow, the body jerked and trembled. "He's already dead, has been for days. Do you think I can't tell? I can smell the rot." He bent down, inches from the aged face and empty eyes, "Say bye bye, now."

S s S s S

Sam stood on the front porch, wiping away the blood that trickled from his nose and watched Bobby's truck disappear from view; he turned away, concentrating on pushing the memories of his brother into the furthest and darkest recesses of his mind.

When he got back to the Impala Lilith was there, perched on the hood waiting for him. She eyed him warily as he approached the car.

"What do you want?" Sam grunted, fishing in his pocket for the keys.

Lilith swung her legs and shrugged, "Nothing much, I expected you to drag me out and lecture me on keeping my hordes under control, so I thought I'd save you the trouble. Nice job, by the way."

Sam frowned at her, "Like you care. If it was one of yours, it had a lousy taste in hosts, or is killing the host as soon as they're possessed part of the game plan now?"

"How should I know, I'm not omnipotent, you know," Lilith smiled sweetly, "I can't keep track of everything. And anyway you're so much better at it than I am. It almost makes me proud." She made a show of wiping away a non-existent tear.

"Shut up," Sam snarled leaning across the car, his head throbbed and Lilith's very presence rekindled his waning anger, his energy was low drained by his actions at the cottage, "we have nothing in common, I'm still a hunter, remember." It was a hollow threat Sam knew, it wasn't his skills as a hunter that kept Lilith in line.

Lilith narrowed her eyes at him, "Are you Sam? Is that what you think you're doing? Do you think you ever had any choice in the matter?"

Sam jangled his keys in irritation. "No, I don't think I did. There, happy now? So, yeah life sucks, boo hoo, poor me, but I can still send you back to hell or rip you to shreds if and when I feel like it. You're a self-serving parasite and I don't answer to you or anybody else any more. " Sam thought of his father's demands and his single minded crusade that had ruined the life of his children. Did matter it anymore why he was as he was, he couldn't stop it.

"Oh, not your father, Sam." Lilith said reprovingly. "I was thinking of when it really started, not that I was there. It was a long time ago, after all."

"Don't try your mind games on me Lilith; we both know how it ended last time." Sam rubbed a sweaty palm against his jeans, curiosity stirring.

Lilith slid of the car, stretching forward and resting her elbows on the hood. "No games, Sam, I just thought you'd like to know your family history, it's really quite tragic."

Sam said nothing, while he was willing to listen to any information she might have, he doubted if he could believe one word she said.

Lilith sighed. "Don't be so negative. It was way back when, when people believed in so much more that they do now. Some guys got together and made a deal," she raised her eyebrows at Sam.

"What did they want?" Sam asked evenly, playing along for now.

"Who knows? Maybe they needed a battle won, or their man on the throne or maybe they just coveted their neighbor's ass, you know how men are. So they made a deal, a deal for which they paid no price." Lilith grinned, twirling her hair around her fingers.

"How so?" Sam's mouth was suddenly dry. Had there been an answer? Another way out of Dean's deal and they had missed finding it.

"People had more gumption then, I kind of miss it. No, they didn't trade away their souls; they traded the souls of their children and their children's children and one in every generation after that, as long as each line survived. Clever, don't you think?"

"I don't believe you, the souls weren't theirs to trade." Sam said slowly, running the words through his head and trying to see where they might lead.

Lilith nodded, "Well done, Sam," she said brightly, "you're right, they offered their blood, you'd call it DNA these days, as a marker, branding their bloodlines for eternity, beasts of burden to be used as and when needed. One person taken from each generation. Some tried to recant and as you know that never works, so they passed the story down, always trying to find a way out of it and before too long they all forgot, except one direct line. Can you guess who that might be, Sammy?"

"Tell me," he whispered. Were the sins of the fathers forever going to be heaped upon him?

"Oh, you know. Your precious mommy. She knew the story, the legend and she thought she'd beaten the deal, protected her babies, with the help of your grandmother, but she died and your mother got careless, paid the price and so did everyone else in her family. There are harsh forfeits to pay when you welch on a deal, but you already know that, don't you Sam?"

Sam gazed at her, his jumble of thoughts too erratic to make sense of her words. She was lying, she had to be. His mother had been killed by the yellow eyed demon and he was gone, obliterated by the shot fired by Dean. The memories of that night in the cemetery were as fresh and sharp as ever, he thought of Jake and the others summoned to fight in a war without knowing who and what they were and winced at the sudden ache in his back. Lilith blew him a kiss.

"I see you finally get it, you're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing. You can make and break deals all you want, dispatch as many demons as you like, but the original deal still stands and you can imagine the number of descendants out there living in ignorance." She paused tapping her fingers on her chin and frowned studiously.

Sam gritted his teeth and tensed, restraining the restless energy simmering under his skin, "I assume there's a point to you being so informative on my account, because if it's my gratitude your after you're wasting your time."

"So paranoid, all I was going say is that your bloodline isn't broken yet. Who knows what Dean will get up to now he's happy and normal, with those healthy appetites of his?" Lilith clapped her hands to her face in apparent dismay, "Oh no, you won't tell him will you?"

Sam tried to grasp onto the slim truth that Lilith had a thousand and one reasons for telling him this, each and every one designed to gain her some advantage but the heavy weight of her words was already pushing down on his defenses and minute cracks were beginning to form.

And for the first time Sam wondered if he had made a mistake.

S s S s S

Dean huffed on the shot glass and scrubbed at it with his cloth. Goddammit, when he was on shift they would have the cleanest fucking glasses in the whole town, he upended the glass and shoved it into place. He then turned his attention to the liquor bottles standing in random disarray on the shelves behind him and began lining them up, labels front and center and wiping down any spills. It was lunchtime and most of the patrons were buying light beer or soft drinks.

"Easy on the glassware there, Deano," Helen remarked, part owner and part nosy bartender. "Not that I mind your efforts, but you look kind of pissed."

Dean grunted, "Bad night."

"Right, anybody I know?" Helen glanced around the bar. There was a handful of customers scattered around the tables.

"No." Dean grabbed an empty tequila bottle and tossed it into the trash can with more force than necessary, the crackle of broken glass rattled across the room.

"Sorry," he muttered at Helen and couldn't help but think of Bobby.

S s S s S

"I'm so sorry." Those were the words he had used and Dean knew something had happened, something important, why else would Bobby look so upset and grief-stricken.

"For what Bobby, what's wrong?" He had asked, his voice catching with fatigue and concern. Bobby had stared back at him, blinking slowly and Dean could see the older man tense up, straightening his back as his shoulder muscles tightened and he pulled himself together.

"You shouldn't have to deal with this, Dean. I'm sorry I put you through that today. I'm promised to keep you safe after what happened last time and I let you down. Sam Winchester just reminded me just how dangerous it is out there." Bobby had turned away quickly leaving the table and returning to bed, not before Dean had seen the guilt in his eyes. He had stayed seated at the kitchen table. "Bullshit," he told the empty room and there he had remained until the sun had crept into the sky all the time wondering why his uncle would lie to him.

S s S s S

"Hey D. looks like you've got an admirer." Helen nudged him and Dean turned to see a young woman staring at him from the main entrance to the bar, automatically he switched on his most winning smile, the distraction was welcome.

She was a petite blonde, her long hair tumbling artfully across her shoulders. She looked a little highly strung for Dean's taste but her tight jeans and silky camisole hugged her slender body in a way that definitely piqued his interest.

Dean propped himself up against the bar. "What can I get for you sweetheart?"

"Dean?" She stepped forward hesitantly, raising her hand to him. It was then he noticed the sparkling band on her left hand, at the other end of the bar Helen sniggered.

This could be awkward, pretty girls wearing diamonds and recent memory loss did not a good combination make. Dean fixed his smile in place and nodded. "That's me."

"Oh my God, Dean. I never heard from you and, wow, you're _working_ here. Is everything okay?" The girl reached the other side of the bar and perched on one of the stools, twisting her ring around her finger and gazing at Dean with wide brown eyes.

"Yup, everything's fine and dandy. How about you kid? You look good." It wasn't a lie, even if Dean had no idea who she was.

The girl managed to blush slightly and still look irritated, "You don't change, do you. Okay, don't tell me what you're up to, I get it. None of my business, too dangerous. Yadda, yadda." She leaned across the bar and Dean trying to ignore the way her flimsy top gaped invitingly almost didn't hear her next question.

"So are you still hunting, are you, you know, now?" She lowered her voice and then sat back on the stool oblivious to reaction she had incurred. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. "I quit, well mostly and I've just started speaking to my mom again. She's opening a Bed and Breakfast, would you believe, with the insurance money from the bar. I guess she was right, there are more important things in life and whatever I was trying to prove really doesn't matter. That said, I never thought you'd ever do anything else. " She shot him a pointed look and crossed her arms.

He must have misheard; he stared at her as she waited expectantly for his reply. Hunting, that word again and then just like that the world suddenly made a little more sense. He rubbed at a twinge in his shoulder and decided she definitely wasn't his type; she talked too much for one thing. He cleared his throat and willed the appropriately bland response into life.

"I'm taking a break, alright. I got a little messed up on a job a few months back and I'm staying with Uncle Bobby for a bit. Anything else you need to know?" He tried to sound lighthearted and fell short, a harsh edge to his voice.

The front door swung open again.

"Jo. There you are, honey. I thought you were just going to use the washroom." The man stopped, straightening up as he took in the couple conversing over the bar.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Jo slid of the barstool and pulled him towards the bar. "Dean, I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Mark." He wore expensive clothes, nothing flashy, designer jeans, a well cut leather jacket and a heavy, multi functional watch.

Mark reached out a hand and Dean shook it, resisting the temptation to return to overly strong grip. Mark eyes darted to Jo and then back to Dean, clearly forming conclusions that Dean could neither confirm nor deny.

Jo clung to her fiancé's arm. "Mark, Dean is an old family friend. We, uh, haven't seen each other in a while." Her face was pinched, as if remembering something unpleasant. "We're just passing through, Dean. We're heading for the west coast; we're getting married in a couple months."

"Well, congratulations." Dean wanted to say something, ask her what she knew but he couldn't bear the thought of exposing his vulnerability and handicap to these people. "Can I get you a drink, on the house?" He could feel Helen's beady eyes on his back.

Jo opened her mouth to reply and Mark injected smoothly, "No thank you, we must get going. He slipped his arm around Jo. "Nice to meet you," he added with great insincerity. "Come on, babe."

"Bye Dean. Take care of yourself." Jo allowed Mark to guide her to the door, before pulling him to a stop and turning to face Dean asked too casually, "Hey Dean, I almost forgot, how's Sam?"

It seemed to Dean that there and then something inside him broke loose, slipping into his bloodstream and spreading a bone deep chill throughout his body. He could feel its progress swirling through his veins with each violent pump of his heart and he heard himself say quite independently from his stalled thought processes, "Sam. You mean Sam Winchester?"

Jo glared at him, confusion on her face. "Yeah, who else?"

"He's still hunting. We don't talk much." The truth and nothing but, Dean crossed his arms and hugged himself against the cold.

"I'm sorry," she offered, but she wasn't and Dean needed her to leave.

"Shit happens. Have a nice trip." He watched them ago and then pushing past startled a Helen, left the bar.

S s S s S

Bobby sat in the shade of an overturned Ford F-150, positioning his lawn chair so that just his feet were sticking out into the warmth of the sunshine and opened his book.

_Harrius Potter et Camera Secretor_, the concentration required to translate the text was always good practice and it kept his mind off the events that had occurred the last time his linguistic skills had been put to the test. A lack of sleep and the unhappy conviction that he might not see Sam Winchester alive again had left him fidgety and indifferent to his normal routine.

He was about three pages in when the noisy growl of an engine reverberated through the scrap yard. It was the Camaro; Bobby put down his book and stood up, listening carefully. The engine was still pinging, Dean was supposed to have fixed the problem, they'd have to have another look at it. Bobby checked his watch, not that he needed to, Dean was not due back from work for about another six hours. Bobby swore softy to himself, he had been expecting this. He sat back down and retrieved his book, keeping one eye on the story and the other on the path that wound its way around the compound.

After a minute or two he spotted Dean sauntering along between the wrecked cars, hands in pockets and face towards the sun. Bobby dog-eared his page and watched him approach.

"You're home early," he said calmly. Dean stopped in front of him and stood silently, pursing his lips in contemplation. Bobby leaned back in his chair, internally bracing himself, in the last few months he had learnt to read Dean's varying moods with a high degree of accuracy, Dean rarely kept his mouth shut if he could help it.

"I met some chick, today." Dean tilted his head to the sky, screwing his eyes up against the bright light.

"Uh huh." Bobby acknowledged.

"Her name was Jo. Didn't catch her last name but apparently we were buddies." Dean kept his eyes closed.

"Oh." Bobby studied his face, obviously that Harvelle brat had let something slip, just how much though, Bobby wasn't sure. Hear him out Singer, he thought, don't give him anything he might not have, you know the rules.

"She's engaged to some rich a-hole, yeah, so she's given up hunting and wanted to know if I was still doing it." Dean opened his eyes and gave Bobby a slanted smile. "Which is kind of funny because as of yesterday I guess I was. Though, you know what I'm thinking Bobby, I'm thinking that's not what she meant."

Deciding that offensive maneuvers were called for, Bobby looked Dean straight in the eye and said, "It's possible I neglected to mention some of your previous clandestine exploits. So what? Doesn't change the fact you got whammied good and hard and I'm doing my level best to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Dean nodded. "Can't disagree with you there. The night it happened, was he there? Was Sam Winchester there?" He gazed mildly at Bobby. "According to this Jo, I know him and putting two and two together, he was my partner, right?"

Shit. Bobby tried to unclench his jaw muscles by taking a deep, subtle breath. Was that it? Was that all Dean had learnt, or was he stringing him along, letting Bobby dig himself deeper and deeper? Oh well, Bobby was fatalistic, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If it was going to blow up in his face there wasn't much he could do to stop it.

"Yes. He was there that night. You got hit by the demon, he left, said he preferred going solo. I tried to stop him; the kid's as stubborn as a mule. You came home. Dean, I didn't tell you about this for the same reason I've been turning down jobs for the last couple of months, I want to keep you safe. You met Sam here; you got on, at first. You hunted and now you don't. Please can we keep it that way?" How many lies before you lose track, Bobby wondered, how many before you end up back where you started?

Dean turned away, walking a few steps and then circling back, scratching the back of his head and peering sideways at Bobby.

"Is that it Bobby, is that all I'm missing or are there more surprises hiding around the next corner?"

"Who knows?" Bobby shrugged. Dean threw back his head and let loose a short bark of a laugh.

"So where do we find him?" Dean grinned innocently.

"Find who?" Bobby asked, and then realized that lies or not, he wasn't going to be able to hold onto Dean for much longer and he prayed that he would not lose them both.

"Dude. Sam Winchester, of course. I may not remember everything Bobby, but I remember enough to know I'm not the type to leave my partner out there on his own, especially when he looks like so much crap." Dean stuck out a hand and pulled Bobby from his chair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Threefold**

**Chapter 5**

**S s S s S**

"Hey, Sam, it's Bobby. Please give me a call."

Bobby snapped his phone shut, Dean watched him, arms tightly crossed clamping down on his irritation and impatience, his earlier good mood slowly eroding as he realized that finding Sam Winchester would be no easy task.

"You can wipe that look of your face, you're just going to have to wait. He'll call if he wants to, if not there's not a whole lot we can do about it." Bobby moved to the sink and raised a cup, "Coffee?"

Dean didn't think he needed the extra stimulation the caffeine would provide, Bobby was being reasonable and helpful and Dean couldn't stand it. It was childish, but he didn't want to wait, he needed to see Winchester now, not at some undetermined time in the future when Bobby or whathisface decided to schedule a meeting.

"Where does he live? We can go and check on him," Dean was trying to keep his voice level and unconcerned, what he really wanted to do was to stamp his feet and yell.

Bobby looked at him in surprise and shook his head, "He doesn't live anywhere. He's off the grid, on the road; people like Sam Winchester just keep going until someone stops them." He sighed, "Sorry Dean, I forgot. You knew all this. I know you were partners and fine, you think maybe you should help. Please drop it, he made his choice."

Dean pushed back on the kitchen counter, rocking his shoulders, he had no argument with which to counter Bobby's words, all he knew was that he had to find the kid, if only to hear from someone else who he was and what he had done.

"How long? How long did we hunt together?" Any answer was open to interpretation, how long was significant? How many days would increase the importance of their relationship? How few would diminish it?

"Just over three years off and on and don't ask me what you got up to because some things you told me and some things you didn't. Better for my blood pressure that way."

"Three years. Three years hunting every kind of freaky crap out there. I guess we got used to watching each others backs." Dean tried to imagine how that might feel, repeatedly risking life and limb and trusting someone with that life, what it would be like if it all went wrong. A bitter emptiness rose in his chest. He couldn't do it, couldn't picture himself outside of the short and limited life that he had experienced for the past few months. There must have been residue of those times; the adrenaline, the fear, surely those memories would be the type to stay with a person for years and years, good or bad. For some reason that stung more than the lose of his family or his girlfriends or anything else that his previous life might have entailed. It made him angry and confused. Had he defined himself by those memories, who was he without them? Bobby waved a cup under his nose and he grabbed it.

"Why do you think seeing him will help?" Bobby asked from the depths of his coffee.

Dean swallowed a mouthful of the strong brew; it burnt his mouth and gave him a fresh focus for his annoyance.

"Why won't it? You haven't fixed whatever the demon did. You said it was your fault, so why don't you help me find this guy again; he seemed to have a way with the evil bastards. How do you know he can't help?" His words were sharp and although Bobby stiffened slightly his expression remained unchanged, a placating calm mask. And for the first time in a long time Dean could feel his brain turning over and connecting the dots.

"Fuck. It was Winchester wasn't it? Not you, it's his fault I got wiped. He screwed up and took off. Jesus, no wonder you don't want me going anywhere near the asshole." Again Bobby's studied lack of reaction told Dean all he needed to know, he threw the dregs of his coffee in the sink and dropped the cup, it rattled loudly against the metal, snapping the handle.

"That was my favorite mug," Bobby said disapprovingly and gripped Dean's shoulder. "You're right; Sam Winchester is responsible for your current condition. Alive, as in not dead. So for once, shut the fuck up and wait."

**S s S s S**

Sam listened to the message several times; trying to gauge the tone of Bobby's voice, there was something in the cadence of those few words, a wariness and apology combined. It was about Dean, obviously. Strange, Sam ran his fingers over the smooth lines of the cell phone, he had decided to ditch it, no one ever called him and he certainly had no plans to be speaking to anybody any time soon. He dropped it on the floor and slumped back onto the bed, the dried blood stains on the pillow crinkled under his cheek. He would see Dean one last time, tell Bobby what he had learnt and then, well it didn't matter much, Sam knew he was dying. His head ached constantly, nose bleeds were the norm, his body adamantly refusing any food that he pushed into his stomach and the scar on his back was leaking pus. This time, he was certain, he was going to stay dead.

There was just one small job he had to finish before the end and he didn't think she was going to be too happy about it. He closed his eyes, wriggling to get comfortable. He would call Bobby later and they would meet, if Dean remembered any details it didn't change anything. His limbs heavy and his mind fuzzy he felt a small measure of peace seep through him and he drifted off to sleep.

**S s S s S**

With nothing better to do than glower at Bobby, Dean had gone back to the bar and had stayed there until closing, serving customers with ruthless efficiency and a scowl.

He went home, thumping up the stairs as a gentle reminder to its sleeping occupant that he was home. Nothing stirred. He shoved open his bedroom door and jumped back, silhouetted against the window was a small figure. Dean blinked and it disappeared, he scrabbled for the light switch and a soft melodic tinkle sounded above his head, the room stayed dark.

Dean shifted in the doorway, no couldn't be, his eyes were playing tricks on him, Bobby had the house and grounds bound up in so many charms and wards that nothing short of a zombie apocalypse could cause any trouble.

This hunter's going to bed, Dean assured himself, quickly crossing the room and slipping under the covers. He pulled them high over his shoulders and up to his nose and willed himself to sleep.

The muted grays of dawn were filling the room when Dean woke, he lay unmoving with his eyes shut, although the room was quiet Dean could feel it, tracing its way across his skin, a soft paintbrush forming an abstract pattern that he instinctively understood. He opened his eyes.

Perched on the windowsill, feet dangling above the floor, was a young boy. His pale blond hair came down to his chin, he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and to Dean he looked to be about twelve years old. He appeared solid enough but in the weak morning light his form lacked depth and cohesion, it was like looking at an old black and white photocopy, recognizable for what is was but clearly not the original.

Dean sat up and pretended that he wasn't scared. "Hey," was all he could think of to say.

The apparition turned to him, swinging its legs to and fro and Dean thought it gave him a shy smile; it was hard to tell in the shadows that played through the window and over his bed.

"What do you want?" Wasn't that what you were supposed to ask?

The image before him flickered, shimmering at its edges. "Your brother needs you."

Dean shook his head, surprised to find that he was genuinely unafraid only confused. "My brother's dead, I think you'd know more about that than me, seeing as how, ah, you know…" Awkward, he should check with Bobby on the do's and don'ts of talking to the dear departed.

"Your brother needs you," the child's ghost whispered and then was gone, only to materialize by Dean's bed, "I'm not your brother." The image was static for a second and then vanished.

"Wait, don't go," Dean yelled at the empty space, willing the apparition into reappearing, in answer a door banged out in the hall and the heavy tread of footsteps told him that Bobby was awake.

The swung open and a disheveled and bleary eyed Bobby peered into the room, "What's with all the noise?"

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged, "You could have told me the house was haunted," he said.

**S s S s S**

Sam picked up his phone from the floor, rubbing at his encrusted eyelashes; fresh blood decorated his bedding and had soaked into his shirt collar. Ignoring the fine tremors running along his fingers, he punched in the familiar numbers and waited.

It was early, perhaps too early and Sam was just about to end the call when a shaky voice answered, "Singer here."

"Bobby, it's Sam," and without giving Bobby time to respond he continued, "Tomorrow, seven a.m. at Clinton Cemetery, Douglas County, Kansas. How much does he remember?"

There was brief pause. "Nothing, he wants to see you; he knows you were his partner, he wants..." Sam heard no more, terminating the connection. He slung the phone across the room, where it missed the small trash can and shattered against the wall.

"Oops," he muttered and dragged himself from the bed, time to clean up and say his goodbyes. Twenty minutes later he had changed into some not quite so dirty clothes. He left the dingy apartment as it was, leaving behind everything that wasn't on his back or packed in the small armory in the Impala's trunk. Outside the morning sunshine was not yet high enough for its warming rays to reach into the shadows of concrete and blacktop, Sam leaned against the car and let his eyes roam over the cracked stucco walls of the church across the street.

"Goodbye Father Joseph," he mumbled. One farewell over, one more to go and then he would deal with Lilith. If he was going down he was taking her along for the ride.

**S s S s S**

The kitchen tiles were cold against his bare feet as Bobby shuffled over to the coffee pot and emptied the cold grinds into the sink, dealing with Dean on a regular basis was having an alarming effect on his coffee and alcohol consumption.

Three generous scoops into the filter cone, the smell alone perking up his drowsy senses, and he was ready to face the next crisis in the Singer household.

"So let me get this straight, you saw a ghost in your bedroom?" Bobby dragged a hand over a jaw cracking yawn, there were several viable explanations, Dean was dreaming, Dean was hallucinating, Dean was insane, it was way too early for this type of shit.

"I'll ignore the overwhelming disbelief that's plastered all over your face. Yes, there was a ghost, spirit, whatever at the end of my bed. It was a kid, a young boy. Modern clothes, longish blond hair..." Dean broke off as the noise of a ringing phone filled the kitchen.

Bobby grabbed it from the counter top, ducking away from Dean, hiding the shock that he knew was written across his face. The house was protected against all manner of paranormal incursion. Did the spirits of those he had loved find no barrier? Sean had often slept in that room. Bobby answered his telephone, emotions reeling, and almost dropped it when he heard the voice at the other end.

**S s S s S**

A light mist rose from the grass, wreathing the headstones in a thin shroud that hid the names and dates from view. Weaving in between the scattered graves it took Sam about twenty minutes to find what he was looking for, a small headstone, unadorned apart from a narrow intricate border carved into the left hand corner. To the casual observer it was no more than ornamentation; to Sam it was so much more, his eyes easily distinguishing the flowing lines of a protection sigil etched into the stone.

_Elizabeth Mary Woodward._

_Her duty done._

_1925 – 1980._

_RIP._

His grandmother's final resting place, he wondered why his father had chosen not to bury his wife where so many of her family had ended their days, somewhere behind him an engine rumbled to a stop and two separate clunks of doors slamming shut announced the arrival of his brother and Bobby.

Winding his way through the many trees planted throughout the cemetery, Sam pushed down on the blossoming anticipation at seeing Dean; this was a business meeting, nothing more.

There were some stone benches just inside the entrance, Sam sat and waited. He watched them push open the gate as Bobby pulled on Dean's arm, forcing him to slow down.

"Sam." Bobby sat on the opposite bench.

"Bobby." Sam nodded, deciding not to acknowledge his brother.

Dean remained standing, hands on hips and smiled sourly, "Hey there, old buddy." His eyes narrowed, taking in Sam's pale features and a couple of bloody splodges on the front of his shirt.

"So what is it? What do you want?" Sam asked impassively.

Dean stared at him, doubt in his eyes, "I want to know what happened. Were we friends? I mean Bobby tells me we hunted together for three years. What did I do to piss you off? Or are you the type of guy who drops people because, oh I don't know, they get hit by demon voodoo? You'll have to forgive me, I having a little trouble remembering."

Sam met Bobby's eyes and the older man sighed, "Don't blame me, he figured out that you were there that night. I tried to tell him you saved his ungrateful hide, but I guess he thinks I'm holding out on him." Bobby was good, Sam smiled inwardly to himself, he lied with the casual ease of someone who was used to being taken at their word.

He stood and in a few steps was face to face with his brother, making good use of the few inches difference in height. It took little effort to summon the anger and self loathing he needed to confront Dean, free of any empathy or compassion. If Dean believed that they were partners his loyalty to that ideal would remain, unless Sam could demonstrate how unworthy he was of that sentiment, and he was unworthy, he was convinced of it himself and he would convince Dean.

"You got in the way that night Singer, just like every other hunt we ever did together. I got sick and tired of hauling your incompetent ass out of one screw up after another. You think it's a game, a hobby for when you're not fucking around or drinking too much beer in whatever bar you stagger into. You thought you could handle yourself, I trusted you to watch my back. More fool me. You'd be dead a dozen times over if I hadn't been there. I got tired of babysitting. Why do you think your uncle doesn't want you on hunts?" Sam could see that one strike home, he shoved Dean in the chest, "You should be glad you don't remember, you can live without the memory of all the times you almost got me or Bobby killed because you're an arrogant son of a bitch who doesn't listen. Goodbye Dean," he finished harshly.

Dean hit him. It wasn't a hard blow, it caught him under the chin and he went down with little resistance and there he stayed, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Dean loomed over him, fist still clenched and confusion on his face.

"I get it Winchester. I don't know what your problem is but it ain't me. Sorry I bothered." He marched away, leaving Sam and Bobby alone.

"Was that really necessary? You could have let him down gently." Bobby offered him a hand; Sam took it.

Bobby ran a critical eye over his trembling form. "How long have you got?" he asked quietly and with more kindness than Sam could bear.

He let Bobby guide him to a bench. "Not long, a few weeks, maybe days. That's why," he gestured after Dean, "Clean break. There's something I need to tell you, something Lilith told me. I don't know if it's true but I can't take the risk, you can't tell Dean. Promise me."

"Let me hear it Sam, but some promises I can't and won't keep."

Sam told him anyway.

Kicking the tires did nothing to help relieve his frustration, so he paced. Around and around the car, scuffing his shoes and letting loose a stream of expletives that only succeeded in stoking his anger until he wanted to scream. Dean opened his mouth to do just that when Bobby appeared at the cemetery gate.

"Let's go," he mumbled head down.

"It that it?" Dean demanded, "We've come all this way because that holier-than-thou fuck told us to and now we're dismissed. Great."

Bobby raised his head and Dean flinched at the obvious pain on display.

"What, did the kid tell you some sob story about how hard it is being a super freaking hunter?"

"He's dying. So shut ..." Bobby snapped his mouth shut, wiping a hand over his face, too late to erase the truth of his statement.

"I'll send flowers." It was a cheap shot, but Dean he couldn't bring himself to care, Bobby just looked defeated. Dean took a deep breath, ready to offer some form of apology and as he sucked in the cool moist air a rancid taste hit the back of his throat, heavy and oily making him gag and bend double, his vision blurred and an endless void engulfed his senses. It only lasted a few seconds before the ground beneath his feet solidified again.

"Dean, what's wrong." Bobby was shaking him.

"There's a demon, here." Dean swallowed trying to rid himself of the foul taste, it was the same sensation that he had experienced at the old man's cottage. How near was it? He spun around, the fetid air drifted across the cemetery. Winchester, had to be, he reasoned, where demons were so was that insufferable jerk.

"Are you sure," Bobby followed his gaze. "Damn it, Sam."

Using the cover of the trees, Dean led Bobby around the circumference of the cemetery, tracking the demon's unholy scent. Crouching behind a large kitsch monument of pink marble, they listened to voices that carried clearly through the misty air.

"You again. Honestly, Sam I'm beginning to think you're stalking me." It was a woman's voice, arch and childish. Dean flinched, shrinking back against the cold marble as the tendons in his ribcage crackled sending darts of pain into his chest, he barely heard Sam Winchester's reply.

"No, sorry Lilith I don't like you that much. In fact this is the last time you'll be seeing me. I can't say it's been a pleasure. Good bye."

Dean spat out a mouthful of blood, Bobby's eyes rounded in horror and a hellish shriek rose into the air, immediately the painful grip on his chest lessened.

Bobby gestured wildly past the headstone, "Oh my God, it's Sam, he's killing her, he's killing Lilith. Come on," he dragged Dean up by his jacket and didn't let go as he dodged around the gravestones. Dean stumbled behind, gasping to catch his breath. Who the hell was Lilith? A demon, he got that, and how did Bobby know who she was? Why did he feel like he was being ripped apart? Too many questions and no one willing to answer them, Dean had the feeling he was being left out of the loop.

In a shadowed corner, hemmed by swaying trees and resting against a small headstone was Sam Winchester. He paid no heed to Dean or Bobby tripping over the grass towards him, his attention concentrated on a young woman pinned up against a tree. Blond hair splayed across the bark as dark blood seeped from her eyes and mouth, her skin distorted and the muscles underneath twisting with inhuman convulsions, she screamed again. It wasn't blood, Dean realized, but something black and thick and his nostrils twitched at the rotten stench that hung in the air around her.

"He's gonna kill her? What about the host?" Dean asked breathlessly.

"There is no host. She is what she is, demon through and through." Bobby said grimly, moving toward Sam and kneeling by his side. Dean tore his eyes away from the demon; Winchester was a mess, his face caked with blood and what looked like watery vomit spattered down his front. The kids eyes, half lidded were still fixed on Lilith and her every cry sent a shudder down his long frame.

Lilith called out, in deep powerful voice, "Welcome to the club, Sam."

Bobby's head jerked up, staring at Lilith, "Crap. No Sam. Stop, leave her be," Bobby took Sam by the shoulders, shaking him violently, "Stop it now, this is what she wants."

Sam tilted his head to focus on Bobby, "I can't. D… Dean," he stuttered and Bobby shook him again.

"You'll be one of them, stop it. Please."

A sudden stab of loss cut into his heart and without understanding his own motivation, Dean pushed Bobby aside and grabbed the boy's face in his hands saying as calmly as possible, "Let her go, Sammy."

Sam gazed at him forlornly, his eyes slid to the side as he slumped down. He reached up and covering Dean's hand with his own guided it to his side, tucked into his jeans was a large knife.

"Finish her," he commanded weakly and Dean thought he recognized something in the green flecked eyes before him, it was enough. He pulled the knife free, glancing at Bobby, who nodded once in assent. Lilith lay on the ground under the tree, flailing weakly and spitting out words in a language Dean was sure very few people had been unlucky enough to hear.

Black eyes tracked his progress, "Come for what you've lost? Well, tough luck, Dean, I can't give it back. If it's not me there are plenty more to take payment," she hissed at him and vice like grip squeezed his torso, the after taste of blood tingling on his tongue.

Wisps of black smoke trickled from her mouth and if his mind had forgotten his muscles had not, some memory deeply ingrained into his flesh guided his reluctant hands; he raised the knife high above his head and then plunged it into the demon's chest. Streaks of heat and flame welled up from within her, he scrambled back as her body writhed and bucked, black liquid pooling around the knife blade. The pressure on his body fell away, he felt sick and exhilarated. Dean waited until the body finished twitching and snatched the knife back, cleaning it on the grass.

"Dean," Bobby called urgently, he was supporting Sam, who lay unmoving, head hanging back baring his neck, his skin was almost translucent.

"Is he dead?" Dean hurried to Bobby's side, wishing desperately that he had never made the crack about flowers.

"Not yet. Here, help me get him up; we're taking him to Lawrence Memorial."

They managed to squeeze Sam into the front seat of the Camaro; Bobby pushed the seat back trying to make the kid comfortable.

"Here," he tossed a set of keys at Dean, "you can drive his car."

"What. No way, you can drive whatever heap he's got." Dean held up the keys, squinting at them disdainfully.

Bobby chuckled tiredly, "Trust me; you'll want to drive his car, now go find it. He probably parked it under cover and not too close."

Dean found it half a mile or so from the main entrance. It was covered in dust and one of the headlights was cracked, the bodywork around it dented, paint chipped and flaking. It was the most beautiful car Dean had ever seen, his beloved 1980 Camaro instantly forgotten.

He laid a reverential hand on the hood, "Come to Poppa, baby. Let's go for a ride."

**S s S s S**

The doctor was tall, dark and not particularly handsome. He greeted Bobby with a wide smile.

"Bobby Singer, you old goat. Up to your old tricks again. Who did you raise from the dead, this time?

"Nice to see you too Ernie. Glad to know you haven't lost you bedside manner," Bobby replied dryly. "Your highly officious nurse whisked my nephew in that direction." He pointed at a set of double doors, "His brother and I would like to know how's he's doing. Samuel Singer. "

Dr. Ernest Washington's face scrunched up in amusement. "Oh, right, your nephew. Of course, how could I forget? I must swing by some time, Bobby, never a dull moment when you're on the case," and he disappeared through the double doors.

"Seems like there's a story or two there," Dean said carefully, Bobby could almost hear his brain ticking over, he thought about telling him the truth there and then. It wasn't worth the risk; if Sam died Dean would lose him all over again. Time to smooth over the cracks and deal with the 'what ifs' another day, which the way his luck had been running would probably be tomorrow.

"Don't over think things, Dean." Bobby said curtly, "I've known Ernie for years, underneath that thin veneer of respectability he's a complete scallywag, used to be a hunter, he knows what it's like out there. Now go get me a coffee, it's going to be a few hours." He sat down and tried not to think of the cruel symmetry of fate that had brought Sam Winchester back to the hospital of his birth.

Two hours of hard plastic chairs later, Dr. Washington came strolling back down the corridor.

"Don't look so glum, gentlemen. Samuel is malnourished, anemic, dehydrated and his electrolytes had a wild party and left the place in a mess, call it hypovolemic hyponatremia if you want to get technical. I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary, so I stuck a drip in his arm and you can take him home tomorrow."

"Thanks Ernie, I owe you one." Bobby grunted.

Dr. Washington waved a hand, "Some things never change. See you later old man."

**S s S s S**

They put him in Dean's room. Sam had slept the whole way home and Dean had helped Bobby drag him up the stairs, letting Bobby fuss over the sheets and strip Sam of his dirty, threadbare clothes before stuffing him into a pair of pinstripe gold and maroon pajamas, a present from Willa, Bobby had muttered darkly.

Dean hovered in the doorway, watching Bobby tuck Sam into bed and brush a hand through his hair. He wanted to help, Sam was still very sick, but Bobby was bustling about like a overprotective mother bear, shooing Dean out of the way and sending him on one little errand after another.

As he stared at the lukewarm soup in his hands he was overcome with a crashing sense of failure. The kid could have died and Dean couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that it was his fault, that somehow, despite barely remembering his own name, he should have anticipated the outcome of their little get-together. Sam Winchester had been his partner, a young man who could, apparently, kill demons with his mind and yet when Dean bothered to look past the angry words and accusations he thought he caught a glimpse of someone he recognized, someone who needed him and instead of being glad, it frightened the hell out of him.

For the next forty-eight hours Dean went to work, Bobby played nursemaid and Sam slept fitfully, rarely opening his eyes and muttering restlessly. Dean would peer through the door wanting to go in and always backing away, Bobby said nothing.

On the third night as Dean prepared to bed down in the small attic room at the end of the house, he heard voices coming from his old room. Sam was talking, whispering in low lazy tones, Dean turned an ear toward the closed door, the gentle murmur of another voice sounded through the wooden panels, he pushed open the door, Sam was curled up on his side, there was no one else in the room.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked, feeling self conscious. "Do you need anything?"

Sam shook his head against his pillow, Dean closed the door, glancing at the bedroom window as he did so and for split second the shadow of small figure fell across the glass. The next day Sam took a turn for the worse.

Bobby was up first, the clunks and groans of the bathroom echoed loudly at the top of the house and Dean rolled over, trying to summon the energy to get out of bed. He listened to the creaking floorboards below as Bobby opened his closet and shuffled about. A curse or two floated up the attic stairs.

Dean hurried downstairs and met Bobby coming out of Sam's room. Bobby's eyes were bleak and Dean's heart constricted tightly.

"He's bleeding again and he won't talk to me. I was hoping he was getting better, I guess we should get him to a doctor again. Damn."

"Will it make any difference? I mean is what's wrong with him normal?"

"He took it too far, pushed himself over the edge. Can it be fixed?" Bobby looked at Dean sadly, "I don't think so. I'm going to call Ernie. Go talk to him, maybe you can get through to him."

Dean slipped into the room; Sam was on his back, his white face stark against the loud colors of his borrowed pajamas. Dean lightly touched his forehead, the kid was clammy and cool so he tugged up the covers and in doing so noticed that Sam must have vomited during the night, his top slimy and bloodstained. Fumbling and feeling slightly embarrassed, Dean unbuttoned the pajama jacket; he could at least clean the kid up, Sam sighed and shivered as Dean pushed the open shirt over his shoulders. Dean faltered, his hands freezing in shock. Sam Winchester had a tattoo. Dean's hand went to his own chest, fingers running over the fabric that covered an identical mark. He'd never given it much thought, assuming it to be the result of youth and exuberance, that or too much alcohol; he brushed a finger over his ex-partner's inked skin. Sam's eyelids fluttered and Dean pulled his hand away quickly.

Sam's glazed eyes settled on Dean and he blinked hazily. "Where's Sean?"

Dean went hot and then cold. He must have told Sam about his brother. Why not? It was the type of thing you might tell someone that worked with you.

"Sean's dead, Sam. Why do you want him?"

"I know that," Sam frowned, "he comes and talks to me. I like him."

There it was, one little piece of information kept from him by friends, family and his own malfunctioning intellect. It was stunning how one small lie could mix up the puzzle and no matter how hard you looked it would never make sense without the correct context. It wasn't about his lack of memories, Dean finally grasped, it was about seeing the truth in the actions of others, it was about recognizing the abstract forms in his life and building something concrete from them. Appreciating his ability to do this was more important than merely remembering what was past. He had a brain, it was about time he used it.

Sean Singer was dead. Sean Singer visited Sam Winchester in the night. Sam Winchester had dark messy hair and hazel eyes and Dean was pretty sure Sean Singer once had long blond hair. The kid in the only photograph of his brother he owned was not Sean Singer.

He was terrified, stupid really, to be so scared of a ailing young man who was wasting away before him. With an unsteady hand he clasped Sam's wrist.

"Sam," he said and remembered the reaction he had produced at the cemetery, "Sammy, what did Sean tell you?"

Sam tugged weakly against Dean's tight grip, gradual awareness lighting his eyes. "Please." He turned his face into the pillow.

"What did he say Sammy?" Dean was insistent; with his free hand he cupped Sam's cheek, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Don't," Sam choked and moisture glistened on his eyelashes.

"Why not, Sam? You can tell me anything you like, that's what big brothers are for."

Sam heaved out a strangled sob, his tears flowing down his cheek and over Dean's hand.

Dean leant in a little closer, "Not quite the reaction I was hoping for. Now get this Sam Winchester, I don't know you very well and you don't seem to like me a whole lot, but let's get one thing clear from the start, you are not going to die, okay. You're going to fight it and you're going to get better and then you and I can have a little talk."

The door creaked behind him and Dean loosened his hold.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked.

Dean pushed up from the bed and grinned wolfishly, "Sam's going to be fine," he paused for one breath, "Uncle. Bobby."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Not my story to tell, Dean," he replied, unruffled as ever. Dean had to admire the sheer gall of the man.

"So which is it, Singer or Winchester?" Not that it was a choice he wanted to make, he was getting used to Dean Singer and very attached to the small family that came with the name.

Bobby glanced over at the man on the bed.

"Tell him," Sam rasped weakly.

"It's Winchester. Pity, you made a good Singer." Bobby glared at them both, "Why does crap like this always happen first thing in the morning? I need a drink," he turned abruptly and stomped away.

"It's not a good story, is it?" Dean said quietly.

"You have no idea," Sam slurred. "Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean replied, somewhat distracted as his mind rapidly concocted one disastrous scenario after another.

"I missed you."

Dean gave his brother a crooked smile, "I missed me too."

**S s S s S**

_A__/N: There might be more, depends how much the new season crushes this into a redundant pile of AU. Woe is me, etc. etc. Anyway, thanks for reading!_


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